"Come on," she says finally, her voice carefully professional. "I'll show you where to put everything."
She leads me down the narrow hallway, her boots clicking softly against the tile. I follow, carrying the box, trying not to watch the sway of her hips or remember how those hips felt pressed against mine. The hallway is decorated with garland and tiny bells that chime softly as we pass.
We stop at a storage room near the back. She pushes the door open and gestures inside. "You can set it on the counter there."
The room is small, barely larger than a closet. Medical supplies line the shelves, and there's a narrow cot pushed against one wall for overnight observations. The space smells like her, that light citrus scent that's been haunting me since yesterday.
I set the box down but don't step back. Not yet.
Emmy hovers in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame. She looks at me like she wants to say something but doesn't know how to start.
"You left early this morning," I say, keeping my voice low.
Color rises in her cheeks. "I had appointments. Mrs. Henderson's cat needed his shots."
"Right. Course."
She chews her lower lip, a gesture that draws my attention to her mouth. "About last night..."
"What about it?"
"We both know it can't happen again."
The words hit like a physical blow, even though I've been telling myself the same thing all morning. "Because?"
"Because you're a client. Because this is complicated. Because..." She trails off, shaking her head.
"Because you're scared."
Her chin lifts, that stubborn streak I'm learning to recognize flashing in her eyes. "I'm not scared of you, Wyatt."
"No. You're scared of this." I step closer, backing her into the doorframe. "Of how you feel when I touch you."
Her breath catches. "Don't."
"Don't what? Tell the truth?"
I'm close enough now to see the pulse fluttering at her throat, to count the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. She's trying to look anywhere but at my mouth, and failing.
"Emmy." I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her cheek. "Look at me."
When she does, I see my own want reflected back, burning just as bright despite her protests. The fight goes out of her all at once, her body swaying toward mine.
"This is a bad idea," she whispers.
"Probably the worst I've ever had."
But I kiss her anyway, slow and deep, pouring three days of pent-up longing into the contact. She melts against me with a soft sigh, her hands fisting in my jacket to pull me closer.
The storage room door swings shut behind us, and suddenly we're alone in the small space, nothing but medical supplies and soft lighting from the overhead fixture. I back her against the supply cabinet, my hands spanning her waist, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where her sweater has ridden up.
She arches into the touch, her own hands sliding up my chest to tangle in my hair. When she tugs gently, I groan against her lips, the sound swallowed by her mouth.
"We shouldn't," she breathes even as her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt.
"Tell me to stop." I trail kisses down her neck, finding that sensitive spot that makes her gasp. "Tell me you don't want this."
Instead of answering, she pulls my head back to hers, kissing me with a desperation that matches my own. Her tongue traces my lower lip, and heat shoots straight through me.
